


🌅𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐌𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐨𝐧

by Named



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Amnesia, But Not For A Long Time Because This Is A, Childhood Trauma, Cutting, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Nope Slower, PTSD, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Sex Trafficking, Slow Burn, Suicide, That's it, Trigger warnings for all of the above, gender neutral frisk, maybe smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23952637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Named/pseuds/Named
Summary: You have other scars, small reminders from bad people all over your back, your chest, your inner thighs—but The man wants his marks to be loudest. He is loudest, but not because of things you expect him to do.You find a new home, a new mom who loves you and cares for you, but you knew from the start you couldn't stay. What kind of monster would leave a child alone in a house like yours?If you have to die, let the sacrifice be worth it.
Relationships: Frisk/Sans (Undertale), Sans (Undertale)/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

When a normal child falls into a bed of flowers, the memories they form are of—

crisp sunshine,

sweaty games of tag,

tentative first kisses—

but the way these flowers catch you in their golden embrace—your memories run like muck through their honeyd petals. Critical information is missing—a void which you will rely on others to fill. They will fall short, as they always do. You will give too much in return, as you always have.

You didn't fall from a ledge that high by accident.

\--

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The marks on your foot, which extend in two clean, pink rows from your toe to the arch, were given to you by a man who told you he loved you after tearing through your flesh with his teeth.   
\--

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


There should be two beds in this room. You aren't used to sleeping alone.   
\--

  
  
  
  
  


Your favorite toy is the floppy, white goat, because his fur smells like cinnamon and golden flower tea. You lay him to sleep on the pillow beside you.   
\--

  
  
  


It's always nice to see a friendly smile outside your window.  
\--

A savory slick scent drives you out of bed, fogging all of your senses except the dizzy boil in your abdomen. You lean, like a chick still wet from the eggshell, against the creamy hallway, dragging the goat toy beside you. You expect the fall—your feet tangling and landing you on all fours, and the second fall too, as you straighten your legs. This isn't the first time you've had to fight your own body.

Toriel steps out of the kitchen, a polished stone bowl steaming in her fluffy hand, rectangular pupils scanning, puzzled, over the armchair, the hearth, the shelves of grade school textbooks. You pull yourself to a sit, the movement snatching her attention. "Oh!" She thunks the bowl onto the table and rushes into the hallway. "My child, what are you doing out here?" 

Weakly, you yank your arm out of her assistive grip. "I w-was hungry!" you yelp, and she flinches back. "...Sorry," you say. 

"No, you did nothing wrong, little one. I should have asked before …" She offers an upturned palm. "May I?" 

You take her hand, and she sits you at the long side of the table. Inside the bowl is oatmeal with little gray cubes scattered throughout. Your stomach pinches nauseously—its usual acidic, too-hungry-to-eat manner, but you lay your stuffy aside and pick out the spoon. A thick coating of oats stick to the surface in a buttery sheen, flaked with bits of parsley, and earthy, roasted garlic. You lick the back of the spoon.

Toriel grins. "How do you like the snail porridge? Your health is improving rapidly, so I wanted to introduce something more complex into your diet."

You gulp a third of your mouthful, but 'it's good' still wraps unintelligibly around the food stuffed in your cheeks. 

"Ah…you have quite the appetite this morning … Is it not painful? To swallow your food whole?"

You shake your head, finally emptying enough space to say, "I like the chewy things."

"Those are the snails, dear, but...you have not _chewed_ , so how do you..." She reaches for the bowl, and you manage one last insufficient bite before it is dragged down the table and out of reach. "Perhaps a small break." —you groan— "Just a small one! We do not want you getting sick. 

"In the meantime, I have not changed your bandages." Toriel tilts your head toward the far wall and rolls up the thick cotton covering your wound. "It is remarkable how quickly you are healing. Not a drop of leakage. How does it feel?" She brushes over the inflamed tissue. Electric pain zaps down your spine and settles in your watery eyes. You shrug. "Very good. You are very good," she says, and heads to the bathroom for fresh gauze. 

The bowl is close enough that you can brush your fingertips against it without leaning. 

As Toriel returns, supplies in hand, you swipe the stuffy innocently into your lap. She unwinds the old gauze and parts your coarse waves. She stipples the jagged scabs with disinfectant, itching sharply where she touches. 

You ask, "Is the snail porridge made of real snails?"

"It is." She places a clean cotton pad on your stinging skin and loops your head in tight, even layers. "Humans require physical matter to grow strong, and snails are one of the few sources in The Ruins." Two metal clamps secure the tail of the gauze.

"Oh." You stretch forward and draw the stone bowl in front of yourself. "But you eat magic," you say, and consume the second half of the porridge marginally slower than the first. Toriel sighs. With effort, you fill the spoon only halfway and pause long enough to ask, "What does it taste like—magic?"

"It tastes of many things. There is a small amount in your porridge."

Politely, you swallow. "Can I try a food that's _just_ magic?" 

"Perhaps … Do you prefer cinnamon or butterscotch?"

"I guess cinnamon." 

"But you do not dislike butterscotch, do you? Would you turn up your nose if you found it on your plate?" 

"I…don't know?"

"Never mind." Toriel titters. The wood on wood scrape of chair legs as she whisks away the empty bowl and washes it. She wrings her damp hands on the skirt of her apron. "Day robes would be more appropriate."

"For what?" You take her offered hand and she guides you through the hallway. 

"I have some business to attend to." 

"Is it shopping?" 

"Erm—"

"Can I wear this?" You have nothing different to change into, save for the ill-fitting stash in your room, but even though Toriel said you're welcome to them, those clothes aren't _yours_. Besides, they're hardly different from the outfit you fell in: tattered Tee's and sweaters with faded stripes, and they aren't even purple. 

"You will stay home. This business is not for little eyes." She opens the door to your room. 

"Oh."

"You can play here, I trust?" Her gentle tug suggests that you should enter, but you glue yourself to the doorway. 

"I want to come with you."

"It will not take long. You are in no condition to run around the ruins." 

You squeeze the stuffy to your stomach.

"Oh dear, do not be upset." She says, and releases your hand, crouches by the toybox and pulls out a worn, bright train, a grey ragdoll, a baby book with fish on the cover, ~~the kind of book you used to read for bedtime.~~ "You have many toys to play with."

You walk up to her, grab the book, and drop it on the ground. "I don't want your stupid toys, I want to come with you." 

She gawks, and as she rises, you immediately regret your choice to fight instead of hiding in the armoire and letting her leave in peace. Now it's too late. Toriel says, "Apologize." 

"No."

She hooks under your armpits, easily lifts you, and sets you on the bed, nostrils flaring. "I will be back very soon. Do not leave the house." She turns, shutting the door behind her. The muted push and pull of drawers from Toriel's room rings a little clearer than normal as she dresses, then the click of the front door, and you're stuck inside, alone. You are the stupidest person you know. ~~Now she'll tell you to leave, and what will you do then?~~

"She won't do that. She's _nice_ ," you insist, and snuggle your face into stuffy's head inhaling cinnamon and tea. "Leave me alone." You flop on the bed, and your head snarls. If you sleep for long enough, it'll almost be as if she never left.

_Clack_. 

The ceiling snaps into view and you scan the room, but the noise was too muffled to have come from here.

_Clack_.

You dangle stuffy in one arm as you slip off the bed, steadying yourself on the evergreen covers, the wall, the door frame. You inch open the door. "Toriel?"

Silence.

You lean out of the room.

_Clack_.

" _Eeee_! Toriel?" The sound was louder that time—from the living room. You skitter across the hallway and hug the walls, careful to remain out of sight of the windows, and stop short of the glass. Leaves and pebbles rustle on the other side of the wall. Something is _definitely_ out there. Maybe an animal? You creep your head past the windowsill, and—

_Clack_.

" _Eeee_!" You flatten against the wall.

Yellow hair bobs at the bottom corner of the window, and a high voice penetrates the thick pane of glass. "Howdy! Uh, are you okay?" 

A little boy? "Yeah." You rub your temple. "My head is messed up right now, that's all." You lean on the windowsill and look into a round, sunshine face surrounded in soft petals.

"You're that flower!—"

"—It _is_ you!"

Disappointment flickers in the flower's round eyes. 

You say, "When I first got here, you waved at me in the other window."

"That's right. I came back after I saw that lady carry you in. You were out cold, then. Say!" He grows taller, taps on the glass with a stubby, green leaf. "I can hardly hear you through this glass. Why don't you come outside and play?"

"Oh, that's Toriel, who brought me here. She's the one who found me, but she isn't home right now. I'm not supposed to leave the house."

"Isn't the yard part of the house?" 

"I guess."

"So we can stay right here and we won't be breaking any rules!" 

"I don't think she would like that," you say, but his smile _is_ tempting. "Maybe you can come in? I have good toys."

He rolls his eyes. "I'm a flower. With roots. I can't travel through wood." He points at stuffy with one of his leaves. "You should bring your friend. Outside."

If the yard is part of the house, then Toriel won't mind. She'll probably never find out, as long as you stay near the door and run inside before she notices.

"I'm going home if you're gonna be boring." He slinks back from the window, rows of dirt and leaves disturbed by his trail. 

"Wait!" You knock on the glass, and the flower perks. "I'll come out." Toriel said she would be back soon, but how long is that? You don't know how far away the store is, but still, here is a chance to play with another kid. If he thinks you're boring he might never come back. You cling to the doorframe, inch down the step into a squared stack of crispy, red, leaves. Your foot thuds unexpectedly against them. You lean against the brick for support and nudge the edge of a wooden plank clear, and something else, glinting deep inside the pile—a small yellow crystal

As you bend to pick it up, you ask your new friend— "What are we gonna play?" —but the crystal stays packed to the ground as if an invisible portion were buried.

The flower giggles. "That doesn't move."

"What is it?"

He rubs a leaf under his chin. "I don't know, but we could play tag."

"I can't run," You say, and as you inch straight, your vision swishes. A thin vine breaks through the earth, coils around your upper arm. Your muscles contact. 

"Geez, you're jumpy, aren’tcha?" He pulls you to the step. "Sit here. Yeah, and we can play…truth or dare." His smile widens. 

You smooth your sweater over your knees and cradle the stuffy between them. "I'm not sure if truth or dare is a good game, either," you say. "I can't remember very much since I messed up…you know." You point at the wrappings. 

"Don't worry, I'll go easy." He winks. "You first." 

"Then, truth."

"What's your name?" he asks.

"Well ... I don't know yet."

"Hmm, that's too bad. Dare."

"Lemme think." He can't travel through wood, but maybe he can... "Grow as tall as you can."

"Hee hee. And I went easy on you." 

"Oh, but don't hurt yourself!"

"What are you, a baby?" He stretches an inch taller, then threads upward, vines curling in on his stalk for support until he is as tall as the gnarled tree at the other side of the yard. Looking this high up makes your head churn like a washer, until he sinks down, down, and back to his old height.

"Why don't you always stay that tall? It must be great to see the whole yard at once," you say.

"Makes it too easy for people to cut me down." He sniggers, and you laugh too, even though the joke isn't funny. A wanderer could easily pluck him by accident as he slept, and then— _snap_ —no more talking flower. "Anyway, you can't ask me questions," he says. "it's your turn."

"oh. Truth."

"Again? You _are_ a baby."

"What kind of dare am I gonna do if it's hard to walk?"

"I _said_ I'd go easy. Anyway, who's your best friend?" 

"Uh…" He stares into you as if, like your name, you should know the answer to this question, but the only person you've met is Toriel, and your relationship with her feels different than friendship. You don't know this flower, so he'll call you a freak if you pick him. You hold up the stuffy. 

He quirks a brow. "The goat, huh?" 

And now he thinks you're weird _and_ stupid. "I know it's dumb, it's just that you're the first kid I've met down here."

"It's not dumb. Now that I think about it, my best friend is a toy, too. Did you name it yet?"

You shake your head. "I've been calling him stuffy."

He picks stuffy out of your lap as if it were his own. You clutch the side of the step as he swivels each of the limbs. "You should call him Asriel." He sets the doll back on your lap. ~~Asriel. That sounds... _right_.~~ You stroke its fur. Right for what, though? "You recognize the name," he says.

"I don't think so. I just like it…"

He pastes his cheery smile back on. "I pick truth." 

"Okay. What is _your_ name?"

"Ha. Didn't I just tell you?"

"No. I mean, the stuffy? Did I forget? I'm sorry, sometimes it takes me a while to—"

"Relax, can't you take a joke? It's Flowey. Flowey the flower." Flowey tosses a large pebble with a vine.

"Flowey?" The corner of your mouth twitches. You rest your knuckles over the smile. "That's an…interesting name."

"And yours is better?" He sneers.

"I, uhm...no—"

"Truth. How'd you get here?" 

"How'd I— … You didn't let me pick."

"Come on, we both know what you were gonna choose. Plus, you're a human, so you weren't born in the underground. I'm not _stupid_ ," he says. 

You file your thumb nail on the cement step. "No, but … I fell maybe."

"You _fell_? On _accident_?"

"Yes." 

"You're not very good at this game. Still, I bet we can jog your memory with a few of these questions."

"I don't know if I want that. Ha…" you glance at the path leading into the yard. How soon is soon?

Flowey laughs. "You don't want to remember your own name? That's pretty freaky." 

"That's not it … Truth or dare?"

"You need the questions more than I do. What's your earliest memory?"

"But it's _your_ turn," you say.

"Just answer it."

"Uhm…I was in the bath, and I remembered…" ~~The man bit hard into your foot _Shut Up Shut Up Shut Up_ .~~ "I was in the bath. Here." You hug the stuffy tight to your chest.

"You're a terrible liar. You can't even follow the rules; the game's called _truth_ or dare. Don't you want your memories back?" 

He seemed so nice earlier. "I'm really not sure—"

"What are you so scared to remember?"

"Nothing, I fell. I hit my head. Toriel said it can take time to get everything back, if I ever get anything back at all." 

"If you ever…?" Flowey furls and unfurls his leaves, features like pinpricks across his tiny face. "You really don't remember," he mumbles.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" He laughs, grin dripping wide, vines coiling tightly around your arms. You freeze like a long-dead animal as he pulls you off the step. "You're supposed to know what to do, but you're _u_ s _e_ l _e_ s _s_ like this." Your chin slams into your chest as he pistons you back and forth; sends the tree, the house, the ground, swirling around you. Reflexively, you swallow the salty pool of bile in your mouth.

" _G-no_ , I- I didn't mean to!" His grip slackens, and your knees hit the packed dirt, brains press against the inside of your skull. You push back at your head, try to hold them in, but the words inside are jumbled, overlapping. You sit for a moment, separate the mess, and stammer, "Petal ... Yellow ... Flowery. I think you've got the wrong one. I can help you f—"

"Shut up!" Sickly sweet breath runs over your face. "You can't help anyone. You don't even know your own name."

Blinding white dots pop and shrink in your sockets.

"Uh, are you okay?" He asks, genuinely this time.

"Yeah...I'm going to stand—sit— _lay_ to bed."

"You're gonna what?"

Gaze firm on the ground, you force your surroundings into place as you crawl to the door, grit sticking in your palms like tacks. You brush the splintery-smooth wood in search of the doorknob. It creaks open on its own. You tumble inside and rest your forehead against the icy, wooden floor, just for a little rest, and then you can lie in ~~the bath~~. ~~The sheet~~. ~~The kitch~~. Acid and snail chunks burn up your throat and pour warmly down your cheek, globs of dark eating your vision, cracking you like ancient pottery into fine powder, and when you reassemble you're standing in a pile of crackly leaves.

The little crystal stays packed to the ground as if an invisible portion were buried. "What…what is this?" you ask of the crystal, and your head floats, painless and light as bumblebee wings. You fumble at the bandage and press on the wound, a dull throb settling in your spine. 

"Hey Flowey, whatever you did, my head feels _better_ now." You look up, but he's gone, a small tuft of misplaced dirt the only indication he was ever beside you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to take a different angle from usual. Hope you enjoyed!


	2. Chapter 2

Toriel has been gone for five hours. 

No matter how many trips you make to the window, how hard you press your face into the glass and will her figure to round the corner into the yard, not one pebble twitches. If Flowey mentioned to his parents that you played together and then _they_ told _Toriel_ ... Is this a punishment? The phone rings when you call, but she doesn't answer. 

You dig through the toy box, collecting the stuffed animals and propping them along the edge of the bed. You extract a page from a flipbook—a smiling fish kid—and tuck it into the dusty picture frame on the dresser. You arrange wooden blocks and rough fleece scraps into a little bed across the room and lay Asriel in it. You call Toriel. If she isn't back by dinner time, you'll search for her. 

On the step outside the front door, you squint down the narrow pathway leading out of the yard, the neat piles of leaves, the dirt, the air, all stagnant under spidery threads of sunlight. You step under the window to get a better look around the tree and your foot lands— _thud_ —on the forgotten plank of wood. A tidy set of doors sits tucked into the ground beneath a veneer of leaves. Circular handles lay flat against the panels, their tightest links joined by a padlock. There's another type of lock, too—a soft, fireplace glow that emanates around the seams. The room next to yours is locked this way. Why a padlock, then? You tug the cool steel.

"Oh dear, that took longer than I thought it would." Toriel paces down the pathway, searching fixedly through an oversized burlap bag.

You flip the leaves over the bald spot and slip through the cracked door, backing it closed and sliding into your room. 

Ear to the door, you listen for footsteps. The front door clicks open. Cupboards open and close as groceries are placed inside. The tap spits. A hollow metal scrape—is she whisking something? If she had seen you outside, she would have come to your room by now and yelled. You sneak past the fireplace, and lean through the entry into the kitchen. She's cooking something cinnamon-sweet and toasted. You wedge against the brick. She hasn't even come to tell you she's home. Did she notice the mess you made of her leaves? 

The whisking stops. "My child?" Toriel spots you hiding. "I thought you were napping. Er, how did you make it all the way to the kitchen?" she asks. You blink up at her, your stomach crawling toward the scent that exudes from her bowl. "I assume that expression means you smell the pie—oh!" Toriel pops her hand over her mouth. "Well, I suppose I cannot hide it any longer. Surprise! It is a butterscotch cinnamon pie. You asked to try a magic food, so I...

"I forgot to fix lunch! Forgive me, young one. Here—" She sets the mixing bowl on the counter. "Let me help you into your seat. It is a good thing I made extra porridge." She mumbles to herself and rushes between the fridge, and the cupboards, and the stove. She splashes milk into the warming pot of porridge and serves you the creamy stew as she chatters about her shopping trip. "The strangest part was when a little white dog snatched the last bag of flour. What use does a dog have for flour?" She asks as she pours dark custard into a baked pie shell. 

You shrug.

"Well, no matter. Mr. Padderson had another bag at his shop, although the walk was further than I anticipated. Did you have fun while I was gone?"

"I mostly sat on the bed, like you put me. I thought…I was grounded."

"Ah." She cradles the pie into the oven and crouches beside your chair, meeting your gaze. "I should not have snapped at you like that. You were only nervous to be left alone." She ruffles your hair with a downy paw and hesitates. "You know you can speak with me about your troubles, do you not? I understand that you lash out because … I will never be upset with you over things that others have done…to you." 

The food in your stomach cements. "What about the stuff I did?" you whisper.

"I am certain it was nothing. A sweet child such as you could never—" She chokes on the end of her sentence.

~~Don't, don't think about it. S _hut up_~~ ~~.~~ "I went outside. While you were gone." You don't want to be in trouble, but you'd rather she hit you than talk about those memories that grate your mind like soft cheese.

"Excuse me?" She blinks back the watery formations in her eyes. 

"There was a kid outside who wanted to play while you were gone, a flower, so I went. We played truth or dare in the yard."

Toriel's lips stretch in forced amusement. "My child, flowers do not speak. Is this a game you imagined while I was shopping? I once had a young one who enjoyed pretending they were a monarch. They ruled over leaf piles with a fist of iron." She shimmies her fist.

"No. It wasn't pretend—I went outside and played with a little boy. His name was Flowey. The flower. We played truth or dare and then he did something weird to my head that made it feel better. See?" You turn and roll the bandages off the wound. Moist spots cool as the air brushes them. 

Toriel strips the wrappings and lifts your hair from the scarred tissue. "This is not possible…" she breathes. She hastens out of the room, returning with fresh gauze. She tightly circles your scalp, fastens two metal claws to hold the tail in place, and turns you around. She holds you firmly by the shoulders. You force yourself not to react to the touch. She asks, "Are you positive you left the house when I asked specifically that you do not?"

"Yes," you say.

"I am sorry, but you deliberately disobeyed me. I cannot allow you to wander around the ruins. It is too dangerous. You…could have been injured." Toriel stands, her lips drawn in disapproval. "Are you finished?" You nod. She says, "Back to your room. There will be no pie tonight."

A sugary scent lingers in the bedtime air, pinching you awake. You rub mucus from your eyes with your pajama sleeves and peer through the dim nightlight to find a little plate on the ground at the foot of the bed. On it is a perfect slice of pie, twisted with a dollop of whipped cream. You tiptoe groggily and sit cross-legged in front of it. The crust flakes onto the fork, the custard smooth and warm with cinnamon, and sweet with caramel-y butterscotch. You savor each bite, letting it melt over your tongue, and then you climb back into bed, safe, and full, and snuggled in blankets.

In that fragmented space between dream and reality, you meet the last child who slept in this bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this one is so short :') Edits are a pain in this story so they will be slow for now, but hopefully I can post more frequently soon 😭
> 
> Stay safe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is safe with the virus and the protesting. We can get through this, and we can make a difference 💖

You place your finger to the stone ground in front of the snail's path and coax it onto your nail. The creature dangles and plops into the bucket with the others, adding to the slick clump at the bottom. Now that you're gathering them with your own hands from their home inside the cavern, you can't ignore the obvious question. "Toriel…?"

"Yes, my child?" She unsticks a palmfull of suction-cup creatures and drops them into her pail.

"If there are goat monsters, and frog monsters, and spider monsters, are there snail monsters?"

She snickers. "What did you assume we have been eating?"

"WHAT?" You grab your bucket and stifle the urge to snatch hers, too, and run the snails to a safe place. Toriel knows every inch of the ruins.

"I am only joking, my child! I apologize, that was horrible of me." She chuckles. "Monsters turn to dust at the end of their lives, so we cannot be eating monsters."

"That's not even _funny_ , what the heck?"

"Do not be upset. I was simply poking fun."

You hoist your bucket into your arms and roll your eyes. "I'm not upset." The mass warbles as you shuffle their container. Two snails sludge along the outside of the pail, and you drop the escapees back into the pile. They don't look happy to get eaten, to you. "I'm gonna go back to the other cave. There were bigger snails there." 

"I do not think you should be out on your own."

"Toriii, pleaase? I know how to get there," you whine, as Toriel's eyes and mouth narrow. "I have my phone, see?" You wag the palm-sized flip phone and drop it back in the gaping pocket of your borrowed yellow raincoat.

She sighs, removing a handkerchief from her robes and dragging sludge from her fingers. "Call immediately if you have any issues."

"Yes!" Before she can change her mind, you jog out of the cavern, shouting thanks behind you.

In Toriel's second favorite snail hunting spot, you palm absently along the wall—an easy way to catch well camouflaged snails, when a fat, sticky glob scoops into your hand. The creature lazily sprawls, unfazed by the sudden change in location. It's similar to a snail—grey, sticky, two long, disjointed eyes, but it's as big as your hand and has no shell. Stringy goop hangs like mucus over the crack it emerged from, as if the hole were a flu-stricken nasal cavity. You hesitate over the bucket. You could call Toriel. She would know whether it's edible.

Yellow plumage unfurls from the crack in the wall. "Howdy!"

" _Eeee_!" You plummet the snail through the air and it lands on the bright intruder, hanging from his face like a snot bubble. It glops to the stone floor. 

"Blehg." Flowey spits. 

"I'm so sorry!—Oh, it's you. Uh, You have a little something…" You gesture over your entire head.

"Thaaanks." He drags a leaf across his petals and flecks the slime near your shoe.

"Uhm…" Toriel has the handkerchief. You snatch a limp pink ribbon from the cavern entrance. "Here's something." You bunch the silky fabric at his face.

He snatches it, cleaning the spaces between his petals as if he were flossing. "Did that lady ever find out about our game?"

" _No_." You scoff. "You left so quick, how could she know you were there?"

"Oh my God," he titters. "You let it slip."

"I'm not stupid." 

"But you _are_ a terrible liar. I don't know why you keep making me tell you this." He drops the soiled strand of ribbon to the ground. 

You don't care what he thinks of you, after all, if you're a bad liar, then he's a bad friend, and ~~a bad friend is better than no friends at all~~. "I found a door in the ground. She caught me outside looking at it." 

Flowey snickers. "You finally noticed the cellar."

"You know about that?" 

"Of course." Flowey tilts his golden head. "So, since you're 'not in trouble', You wanna play?"

You don't. He's mean, and according to Toriel, he shouldn't even _exist_ . It isn't a good idea to play with someone like that, even if truth or dare was a _little_ fun; even if you never got to ask him anything good last time. "I'm sort of busy. Gathering snails." You half-heartedly unstick a snail from the bucket handle and drop it back in.

"...I'm sure that's sooo fun but let's play tag instead!"

"Uhm…" Maybe he knows about the other child—the one whose coat you're wearing. "Can we play truth or dare? I'll...choose dare." 

One sly half of Flowey's mouth crooks upward. "And what do you want in exchange?"

"It's just a game."

"If you're gonna play wrong again, never mind." He slinks back down the hole, his stem, his leaves, only his eyes are left showing, and,

"I want you to tell me a truth!" you say.

He pauses, snakes back up, that strange look on his face. A little crooked. A little wrong. "Deal," he says. "And you pick dare?" He points at the big snail, crawling up the wall and feeling for a crack with its eyes. "Lick that slug, then." 

You scrunch your nose.

"Should have picked truth." He snickers. But that didn't turn out so well for you last time.

The pail scraps against grit as you set it down and crouch in front of the snail, peeling it up with two fingers. The slime tastes like bitter mud.

"Elghr—I didn't tell you to swallow the stuff." Flowey sneers.

"Well...whatever!" You place it back and wipe your fingers on the denim of your shorts. 

"That was nasty. Now I _really_ owe you."

"I don't think you'll know the answer. I want to know whose room it is—actually—did Toriel have another child before I got here?"

"Why don't you ask _her_?"

"She had a whole room made up before I got there, with toys and kid's clothes already in it, but she's never mentioned another kid," you say. "I mean, she's super nice, and her cooking's _amazing_ , but…is that normal? To keep a whole room 'just in case'?"

"Everyone knows she's screwy. I bet she's waiting for you to grow up so she can cook _you_." He titters.

"I doubt it."

He rolls his eyes. "Take a joke." 

"Sorry … Do your parents know Toriel? Maybe they could tell you something."

"My parents. Hmm, let's see—I don't have any."

"Really? Where do you live, then?"

Flowey's round little eye twitches. "Okay, maybe I do know something, but it's better if _you_ don't."

"What—I licked a snail so you would tell me!"

"Well…it's been a looong time since a human fell down here. Maybe things will be different with you."

"There are other humans? Where?" you ask, and your phone shrills off the surface of the cavern, the thin caller ID strip across the front scrolling through Toriel's name.

"Ask _her_ ," he says, and he collapses back into his tunnel.

On the final ring, you flip the phone open. Toriel spews— "Is everything all right my child?" —before you can bring it to your ear. 

"Hi, I'm fine." You drag up enthusiasm. "I saw…a giant snail." 

"What a wonderful discovery! How large was it?"

"Huge, and it didn't have a shell," you answer. "And, I found something else out, too."

"About the snail?" Toriel chuckles. "If you see it again, place it into the bucket, and we can search for its description in the snail book tonight."

"Actually, about humans." Silence on the other end. "There are others."

"No, ah…" she clears her throat. "What silly thing did you find, little one? I am sure it is nothing."

A throaty voice echoes, "Howard, is someone in there already?" Footsteps click from the tunnel outside. There's nowhere to hide in here, and you've never met another monster besides Flowey. 

"Is someone with you?" Toriel demands.

"Um—"

A squat, pink-clad froggit traipses into the cavern, a tall but unassuming froggit lagging beigely at her tail. 

"My child? Hello?" the phone says.

The tall froggit looks at you, and in a bubbly-soft voice, he says, "what kind of monster is that?" 

"Ugh." The lady froggit cringes. "Is that…a human?"

"Hello…" you say, and Toriel, in your ear, says something about the phone and something about if you're alone, but all of your attention is on the two froggits and the way their eyes scan you—as if you're a gross lump or a creepy doll.

The one in beige says, "I don't know Patty, but it has stripes."

"I don't care if it's a child, it's still a human. Get rid of it."

"Is that a good idea, sweetums? Last time you thought you saw a human, it turned out to be a ghost monster." 

"That was years ago! This time I'm certain." The lady pinches her face and stomps toward you. "Shoo! Shoo!" She prods you in the ribs. You drop your phone and clutch at the bruise forming on your side, phone skittering, the screen going blank as it smacks into the beige froggit's shoe. The lady flaps her umbrella. "Scram, get out of here!" 

You dip for the bucket, but 'Patty' snags you on the shoulder, hard enough you land on your butt. She snatches the bucket before you can reach it. 

"There aren't enough snails in these ruins for you. I'll take this."

"Hey, I gathered those, they're _mine_!"

"Like I said, there aren't enough for you." She raises her umbrella, and you curl into yourself.

The blow doesn't come. You peek from underneath your arms. The tall froggit is gripping the umbrella, its heavy metal tip inches away from your head. The lady eyes him wildly. In her distraction, you back against the wall.

"Come on Patty, no need to fight. Let it have the bucket," he chatters. "We don't know it's a human. Our last 'history of the surface' class was, what, eighty years ago?"

She rumbles, arm jittering in the air, "I will not _waste_ resources—"

"Toriel!" you shout—pitchy reverberation as purple robes round the corner, your fears evaporating like a release valve. 

Patty drops the bucket and it rolls to Toriel's feet, snails spilling, liquidus, from the opening. 

"Are you alright, my child?" Toriel asks. You nod, her charcoal eyes burn through the pair of froggits. "have you not wasted enough energy harassing unassuming innocents, Patricia?"

Patty snorts. "Please, there's no such thing as an innocent human. You can't expect everyone in the ruins to tolerate your pets. My mother still talks about the last two, running around like naked fleas. I, for one, won't pander to your—frankly this is an obsession." 

Toriel closes in, an appropriate distance for polite conversation. Patricia tilts imperceptibly back. Toriel says, "I've never known a human to act so foolishly. Perhaps it is her own children for which she has mistaken her memories?" 

Patricia tinges maroon. "I'm no _animal_ —"

Her husband turns toward the wall, his hand barely hiding his oversized grin, when he notices you. Rocks dig into your back. He spots your phone near his worn loafer and scoops it up, and if only you could disappear into the stone, because while Toriel is distracted by that woman, he is walking toward you, and digging through his pockets, and crouching in front of you. 

"Sorry about all this," he says. "Here's your phone back." He places it into your palm along with several gold coins. "Ask your mom to take you out for some Spider Cider."

"She's not my mom. She's just Toriel," you say.

He waves a webbed hand— "Either way." —and Patricia stomps over, yanking him up by the shoulder of his jacket. 

"What are you _doing_ Talking To _It_?" she steams. He cuts her a smile, and for the first time, she falters. "We're coming back tomorrow," she deadpans, and hurries out of the cavern without him, arching the perimeter to stay as far out of Toriel's reach as possible. He lags in a straight line behind her. 

"Come now, my child." Toriel crouches. She plucks the slowly escaping snails back into the bucket. 

You unglue yourself from the wall, painful spots on your ribs, and your shoulder, and your back radiating as you draw toward her and gather. You open your hands over the bucket. 

She looks up at you. "Are you certain you are not hurt?" 

"I'm okay," you say. Toriel excavates the well-used handkerchief from her robes, and you allow her to examine your arms and mop grease from your hands. Those froggits took classes about the surface _eighty_ _years_ ago, and they've never seen a human? "There aren't any others," you say.

Her shoulders deflate as she kneels in front of you, softly thumbing away dirt. "Not any longer. I wish there were." 

Did they grow old, or … You glance out of the cavern. "I'm sorry," you say, but she doesn't answer. "I can hug you. If you want." 

She nods. "I would like that." 

You lean down and wrap your arms unsteadily around her shoulders. You should have believed her about the danger. 

The coins in your pocket chime as you straighten, and you ask, "What is Spider Cider?"

She dabs her eyes with a clean corner of the handkerchief. "It is a type of dessert similar to fruit juice." Toriel stands. She places the cotton square in her robes and hangs the two buckets on her arm, her lips pursed inquisitively. "There is a spider bake sale on the way home. Would you like to try some?" 

You lace your fingers through hers and nod.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for the aftermath of rape. No rape happening, but it is still medium to medium high spice bad? Idk :')  
> Sorry this one is probably messy...and maybe not so good...  
> Uh...  
> Thank :')

You scrub at the fatherly peck on your forehead, exfoliating the tainted area with your nails. That thin line of damp saliva where _his_ lips met your skin hurts more, somehow, than the place he cut you, even though he used his favorite denticulated knife just to make it hurt worse. He loves to reopen the heart below your navel, once it's scars. You have other scars, small reminders from bad people all over your back, your chest, your inner thighs—but The man wants his to be loudest. 

He is loudest, but not because of things you expect from him. 

Your feet lag through a house you recognize but don't remember—a door you know, but can't place. A little boy, arms linked around his shins, taps his scrawny feet to "Be Our Guest". "Sib," he says, as you hobble to the bed and the tent of your evergreen covers. "Is it dinner? I'm hungry." 

The dried herb scent of tea lingers in the cloth folds. "Soon," you respond routinely. You peel the tape under your navel undressing the fresh cut, the sharp tang of blood and earthy herbs, mixing uncannily. Why is The man the only solid thing in your head? You could spend forever in this squishy half life if you could ignore him: his praise and kisses as he disinfects his work—as if by stitching you up, the cuts don't count. 

The song finishes. The little boy says, "Where'd you go? I was hungry." 

"Playdate." The cotton sticks to your cut and tugs at the freshly clotted wound. 

"You forgot lunch." 

Slowly, you pull it down, gluey blood stinging and snapping away from your skin as rosey tendrils bloom from the cut. "I'm sorry. I'll make it—oops." The jagged arch of the heart splits like a seam. You inhale sharply. Droplets patter onto the sheets. 

"You okay?" the little boy asks—pressure on the side of the bed where he leans.

"It's nothing. Just a cut." ~~Put it _back_. ~~

"Want some medicine?" 

You hold the pad against the gash, the tape refusing to adhere against smeared blood. A gash this deep—no wonder The man had been so extra nice to you afterward. "No. I'll get it myself." You pinch flesh together in a senile attempt to close off the flow. 

"But you got a hurt. Lemme see." He yanks at the covers with his tiny hands, and you block the seam with your leg, bloody tea gagging the enclosed space, and … 

You should know this child's name. A…As … No, you're thinking of the doll. Asriel. Anticipation leaches into the air, and the whole world shifts. "Uhm...hey?" 

Calm on the other side of the blanket. The boy says, "Mm-hm." 

"Am I…awake?" 

Shuffling. "Yes?" 

You ask it every time, even though you know you shouldn't. "I'm fine." you tell him. "Go get a snack, okay?" 

"But—" 

"It's just a little cut. Have a snack and then I'll make dinner." Your heart pulses with the animalistic sensation of pursuit, as if by stumbling into your own mind, you've been spotted in the wrong territory. This place knows things you don't. 

"Okay," the boy says. The side of the bed lifts. The floorboards creak at the end of the hall, and then you remember that this is a trap. 

"Wait!" You fling from the bed and grab his arm. "I forgot, you can't go out yet." ~~Hide. It's too late to get away.~~

"Sib…" the little boy stares at your cut, wilted bandage pooling and soaking through the waistband of your bloomers. 

"Don't worry, I have a bandaid, see?" You fumble with the red padding, press it uselessly to your skin. "It doesn't hurt. Listen! I forgot it's time for hide and seek." 

He wails. "Sibby, oh no." 

"Shh, shh!" You hiss, footsteps fluttering at the door, and you shove the boy toward his bed—you'll hide him underneath—but the door opens. 

The man steps in. He ruffles the boy's hair. He _touches_ him, as if those fingers hadn't just been— "Don't cry little guy. I can fix this right up." The man breaks your grip from the child's arm and laces his fingers between yours. "Come on, sweetie." He says. 

"Okay, daddy," your mouth says. 

He takes two steps toward the door and pauses, turns his dead eyes to the boy. "Would you like to come with us?" 

"No," you say. 

The man's smile grows thin. 

"He has homework." 

"You're very bad, opening your bandaid." The man says. The trail of blood is tacky down your leg. "I'm sure his father would agree, letting the boy watch would be a good lesson for him." 

"But—he has a D. The teacher is watching his grades. Close." 

"Right." The man says, and drags you to the white room. Incandescent light glares off the door's shiny paint. Inside that room is blinding baby pinks and blues and purples, candy cane stripes, and toys that are not meant for children, but with which you are deeply familiar. This comes to you in the same squishy knowing as the rest of the world. Part of you wants to kiss The man just to get it over with. Sometimes he's nicer when you cooperate. ~~But he isn't real. You don't have to follow him.~~

Then what _is_ real? 

"Toriel," you croak. "Toriel!" You plant yourself, but the door moves toward you like an optical illusion.

"Why are you screaming?" The man says. "Be good, baby." 

"Toriel! Please, wake me up! Toriel!" 

"I thought you wanted to play nice." 

"Go away!" 

"If you're going to act like a brat." He yanks you to the door and shoves it open. 

You don't want this. You thought you were done with this. Why can't Toriel hear you? 

The man throws you in the white room, and your mind goes sleet black with panic. The door taps shut behind you, nerves like sparklers in your skin; blood, and tea leaves, and cinnamon warmth. This room is too warm, the colors too soft. "Whe-here?" you hiccup, glancing over your shoulder to gauge The man's reaction, but he isn't there. 

This picture, with cream walls and coffee door, snaps into place like Lego. Green covers hang limp off the bed. Toriel's snore lilts down the hall. Your stuffy, Asriel, is clutched in your sticky hand. You should be relieved. You're awake. No man, no nothing that can hurt you in this place, at least not that bad. All that's left of the nightmare is a fuzzy, over the shoulder image of a boy, a babyish voice, fluttering little hands—a memory of a polaroid. ~~You should know him.~~

You can still feel the sting of the cut below your navel. You press beneath your shirt to rub the feeling away, and your fingers come back wet, dark patches glistening like shadows in the nightlight. 

_Clack_. 

Is that…Flowey? You smear the thin layer of blood on your shorts. The small, dim screen of your phone gleaning through the hallway as you tiptoe to the window. He waves a leaf, barely visible in the light of his own screen, and presses the sleek smartphone to the glass. You dial the displayed number, glimpse his grin as he presses the screen to his face.

"Howdy!" 

"It's so _late_." You cup your hand into the speaker and whisper, even though the house is resting. 

"I couldn't wait anymore. You were supposed to come find me." 

"I can't go out on my own. Toriel already gets mad sometimes." 

"You've done it before. Besides, I'm out here." 

"You don't have a mom to live with," you say. Too late to breathe your words back in, but if he wanted to stay with you and not outside, he would have asked, right?

He says, "And your mom isn't even real. _You're_ not her 'child', you're just a surrogate. Don't look so upset. I'm just trying to help. You can't stay here forever. You think those froggits are gonna hurt you any less when you're older?" 

"No…" 

"The people down here, they hate humans, but I'm your friend. I wouldn't lie to you the way that lady does." 

"Toriel is _nice_. And even with the froggits, it's safer here. I remember that much."

"So, you don't wanna find out what happened to the humans?"

You freeze. "They just…got old."

"They _escaped_."

"How? That hole I fell through is _way_ too high to climb out."

"There's one other way." His screen lights as he points it at the ground—at the cellar door.

The hallway light flips on and leaks into the living room. "My child? Who are you speaking with?"

You drop the phone, clamor it back into your grasp. The call has already ended. "No one. I just heard a noise." 

"Why do you have your phone, if you were not talking to someone?"

"It's for light," you say.

"I heard you speaking."

"Just to myself. I think the noise was coming from that door." Toriel's face flattens like a steam iron passing over. "The one…under…the leaves?" You clarify.

"How did you find that?"

"I just…was outside—"

"I did not see you playing in the leaf pile while I was home. You have been out on your own again?"

"No—"

"Why are you so eager for secrets? I have answered your questions, have I not? I have taken care of you."

"…It's not that. I can see the door outside the window. That's all." You shine your phone out the cellar window and onto the jigsaw of wood below. The metal lock shines dully. "I thought maybe the noise was coming from here."

Toriel cups a hand around the window, pulling you into her side with the other, as if you could fall through without her. "I am sorry, my child. It was likely someone who…never mind that. You did not even change into your PJ's," Toriel says, and guides you to your room. She untucks a pair of fading, red-striped pajamas from the dresser and places them on the bed. You thank her. "Goodnight, small one." 

When her bedroom closes, you dress. Under your shirt, flakes of blood and nail scrapes decorate the old brown heart scar, the lines and diggs scattered like personal braille font along your body. Flowey might be right that Toriel is lying, but the other humans don't matter, now. You don't want to leave—not really. If Flowey helps, you could bring your brother _here_ , though. Slip out while she's dreaming and creep back with him before she notices you're gone. You roll into your covers and send Flowey a text, one painstaking letter at a time. 


End file.
